


Dancing & Falling

by faryn_rose



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faryn_rose/pseuds/faryn_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were sure that falling in love with your dance instructor was not part of the performance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing & Falling

“Loosen your limbs. Be more flexible.” His voice is like honey, his frame like grace as it stands tall and steadied beside your own. His breaths come with effort from the last hour spent practicing in this small dance studio, and the tips of his dark fringes are a little damp as they fall into his eyes, but you think he looks impossibly handsome all the same.

“Stretch out a little more, so I can hold like this,” he instructs, willing your breath to catch in your throat when he inches behind you to grasp your waist. His body heat bleeds into yours at the proximity, and you find your breath stuttering at the image in the mirror, of his tall frame nestled so closely behind yours, arms around you as if they belong there.

You can’t remember when you started acting so strangely. You’ve been practicing with this man for weeks now, moving and flowing with him like two twin streams rippling side by side, spilling into each other, perfecting this very intimate dance for the stage performance that was only tomorrow.

But each weekly practice has promised more of him and nothing  _but_ him, and you have not only become accustomed to it, but suffered from it, craved for it, thought restlessly about every way he touched or held or gazed at you, left you wondering how you’d live without it all after showing it to thousands on the stage. You wonder if he is affected as you are by all of this, by all of  _you_ , before you are jolting suddenly at a playful squeeze at your sides.

“Y/n, I know my handsomeness can be distracting,” he flashes you a grin that makes you want to cry, “but we just have to fix these little, final things for our performance.”

You huff a breath and nod, willing yourself to get focused quickly as he removes himself from your side to start the stereo. The notes that float to your ears are familiar and stir up the rhythm already woven deep inside your bones by the time he takes his place behind you again.

“Okay, fall back against me now.”

And you do, against the warmth and firmness of his chest, just as you practiced, but this time, it makes your heart flutter with all the intensity you can imagine. His arms snake their way around your waist as if on instinct, binding tightly enough to make your breath stutter at the way his nose grazes the expanse of your neck. You pray for the time you have left until your feelings entirely steal your sanity by tomorrow.

He does not have to tell you what to do next, not when the music’s beats are already sewn into your ears and command each of your movements with vivacity.

You twirl in his grasp to face him and nearly falter in your steps because, suddenly, you are only inches away from his sun kissed face, his warm breath, his shining eyes as if this is the first time you’re seeing them. You’ve accepted, though, that this is always how it is when you lay your eyes upon him.

Your heart jumps when your own hands comb through his hair, as if you body isn’t aware of itself, and tighten in the onyx strands to press his forehead to yours. His breath fans your face, coaxing yours into small stutters when his grip on you tightens a little more than how you’ve practiced it, and how his eyes are now drinking, devouring the sight of you so close to him, as if this, too, is the first time he is seeing you.

You are distantly surprised when he is a beat late to go to the next move, then two, then three, before he is blinking into reality, noticing, just as you have, the unreasonable, stifling shift in the atmosphere. He pulls away with flushed cheeks, darting eyes, remembering another second too late to release your burning body from his grasp. He smiles nervously then, clearing his throat hastily to manage out some words of redemption. 

“I…think that’s enough. We have everything down,” he speaks, words confident, but voice struggling not to trip over them as his fingers scratch the nape of his neck. “The important thing is to get some rest for tomorrow. Good work.”

He shifts easily back into his dance instructor mode, and you find the icey inkling of disappointment curling deep within your chest when he packs his things and ruffles your hair in parting. 

And you can only pray for the time left for you until tomorrow. 

* * *

When you both take the stage with pounding hearts and hushed murmurs from the audience, you shine like two stars under the spotlight in your shimmering clothes and stilled frames.

The hum of the music flows through the hall like leaves piercing the autumn air in their descent. You begin with a single, soft exhale, the last beat of your silent mental count of  _five, six, seven, eight_  guiding your internal rhythm. Hakyeon has always counted it off for you, but not this time, not when he is on the other end of the stage, watching you with careful, reverent eyes as your dance routine commands you to suddenly take to him like lovers embracing after a long-delayed reunion. 

His nimble fingers wrap around your torso with ease upon contact, cheeks flushing slightly at how beautiful you look under the spotlight. He spins you around with a delicate hold on your hand, sending the hem of your twilight dress twirling charmingly in the effort, and you distantly feel the familiarity in this move. This time, however, instead of coming around to face the mirror and memorizing each way he touches your skin, your eyes are sweeping across the rows and rows of audience members who suddenly serve to have your heart racing.

Then, your nerves are suddenly flying away like birds escaping to freedom when his nose grazes your neck just as you’ve practiced, and you remember to stretch yourself out slightly so that he may hold you even closer to him. Your heart jumps erratically with each move, whether it’s from the nerves granted in front of an audience, or from being with him once again, you don’t know, but you nearly buckle when he presses a soft kiss to the skin of your shoulder.

You don’t recall this part of the dance. 

You are quick to transition to the next move, concluding that he is only adding a bit of flair to rile up the audience, but when you finally come back to face him once again, he blinks distantly as if he’s unable to register what he’s just done. Your fingers tangle in his hair and press his forehead to yours as routine dictates, and serves to pull him out of his trance for the smallest while at the sound of squeals and gasps from the crowd. 

He jumps into the next step almost half a beat early, perhaps a grab at redemption for yesterday in how he does not allow himself to get lost in your eyes today. He grips your waist to twirl you around once more, lifting your dainty feet off the polished floor in the effort, and sways and moves as you do, faithfully matching your movements and dutifully catching you when needed. 

But you can feel how it’s different this time, that it’s like fire this time, in how desperate his hold grows sometimes, as if realizing he never wants to let go, or in the softness of his gaze when it is supposed to be irrepressibly fierce for the audience, or how much closer he holds you compared to how he did during your repetitive practice sessions, as if his body is falling in love with you all in one night. 

It seems like he reads your mind when he dips you low and breathes, “ _wow_.” He gazes so deeply in your eyes, you both jolt at the sudden roar of the audience and thunderous applause that viciously tear you away from your trance. 

He straightens you up with a slight tremor in his grip, the hollers and cheers from the crowd stealing away any words brewing at the tip of his tongue, and gazes at you with stars in his eyes. You know it’s not from the shimmer of the lights, and you can’t help but beam a smile in response.

Your forms take a humble bow under harsh spotlights, entwined fingers and sweaty, thankful faces dragging another roar from the audience that shoots electricity through your spine.

You register your laugh when he hurriedly tugs you behind the protection of the ruby curtains, his lips spreading into a smile just as wide upon seeing your utterly tired, relieved, grinning form.

“That went well,” you offer, registering almost too well how his fingers are still holding yours so tightly.

“Yeah,” he breathes simply, eyes far off as they distantly gaze at you. Then, he is diving, diving towards you, lips crashing against your own and hands grappling your waist as if you’d disappear any second. He is soft and warm and desperate, and you do not hesitate to weave your fingers through his silky locks and press yourself into him.

“You were amazing,” he says between breaths and between kisses, always going back to your lips for more. “God, it was amazing, everything.”

You show your agreement with eager kisses of your own and finally, finally, feel the sweet tinge of relief after the countless tension-filled practices you both have suffered through.

You laugh when you have to push him away, after receiving odd looks from backstage passersby, who, after having seen a performance so passionate by two young people, can conclude only now that the driving force of such a show was simply love. He blinks at you, dazed and smiling, and you have to press a single, final kiss to his lips for good measure.

“So, when’s our next performance?”


End file.
